Sunday, August 30, 2020
Solomon and Ingrahamora were smote of the reign of fire. The Scribes and the Pharisees(Me and Lorie) were unjust to the weak. If Biana looked back, she would be turned into a pillar of salt.
On the anniversary, as it was, of "I have a dream" his son is saying "remember your community", appealing to our common humanity, rather than trying to sew some kind of division based on personal liberty, which we've seen so much, people standing on their rights, their truth, their personal dignity.
Personal liberty matters not a jot in the long run, I've found, though we harp so much, Anderson and Chris. We have to have that common ground, MacDonald's, on which to come together and make a consensus. Personal liberty is the liberal justification, their own brand of "exceptionalism", but the community?
Can we not have inalienable rights as individuals plus a sense of community? We need that sense of belonging, we need that concern for voting rights, but we need that realization that Kenosha/Genosha anger is misplaced. We must then, find a breath of air and use our reason, because only through reason do we address policing tactics and make written, enforceable, just policy.
But Solomon and Ingrahamora. "For even five good people would I spare this city." Well, that's a problem; you can't find five at one time demonstrating good behavior, chief. Laura bearing down. Leon Weddington. Bridesmaid Revisited.
Alicia might let me work on her Exterra. After, I'll get it to highway speed and see how smooth that kitten is.
They are all kind of good for a feel.
(here I'm watching D Barton this morning talk about objective truth, where I was just reading Solomon, the wisest man of his time, saying there was no objective truth, but only to be good, and then no one could agree what it meant to be good. Maybe post a meme about Chadwick Boseman? And he amazingly, made some of those films knowing his own time was short? How about that?)
Why, Cheever, you have something in your eye.
Let me pull the smote out of my own eye before giving you advice.
I've been, on my own time, tracing out the links between the Civil Rights movement and the Christian faith. It didn't take long before my attention was directed to the captivity under Pharoah, and the promise of a new home land for the Hebrews, even if it would take forty years of wandering aloof in the wilderness.
Friday, August 28, 2020
Thursday, August 27, 2020
Before the Puccini opening night, Luca, the Corleones' boy, sang a folk song called "Speak Softly, Andy", a song that he informed the onlookers was written and sung around Corleone, Italy. Francesca had a tray of baked goods: canoles. Don Altabello was the intended recipient, him and him alone, having ingratiated himself to Francesca in false friendship, pestering her for some home cooking, like that was a "taste of the old country", even though she was born on Long Island. It was her mother, instead, Abandondo Corleone that had came from the old country all those years ago.
Anyway, the opera started, and old Don Altabello was trying to force feed himself the canole with trembling hands. The whole thing was quite disgusting, sauce and cheese finding their way onto some of the surrounding surfaces.
The canole was quite poisoned, and soon, he nodded his head, as peacefully asleep during the spectacle of the opera, asleep in one of the dignitary boxes.
But quite otherwise dead, like, met with fate and all that. Deep six. The inevitable septic tank phase of life.
Meanwhile, Rocco Neary had feelers out, and an answer on one subject "Fabrizzio", who as Michael explained, carbombed his first wife, Apollonia, back in the old country in a villa, while his safety was being back by Don Tomasino.
They put the kybosh on Fabrizzio.
But later, Michael would have a sugar shock blood glucose event, and actually manage to wax human in speaking to the then ancient Don Tomasino. "I was so feared, while you were so loved." This as Fabrizzio was getting a button pushed on him, and Moe Greene took one through the eyeglasses. Fredo's brains splattered across the private lake inside the Corleone family compound outside of Vegas.
|"Only in America!"|
Wednesday, August 26, 2020
Tuesday, August 25, 2020
So these guys are trying to stir a controversy in Kenosha. "I don't know what to tell his son." Says one angry man.
Try this. Officers draw on you, don't pretend you're Batman and try to leave.
"Obviously, Cheever, your father thought he was Batman, and just walked away from drawn handguns and cops yelling commands. Not afraid of a bullet. Now we tear down the city."
Also, accidentally watched about 120 seconds of Tucker Carlson last night, in which he claimed that the other news outlets weren't carrying the RNC.
Immediately, I check the other news outlets, only to find they were carrying the RNC, pretty much in it's entirety.
That makes Tucker a liar. Willing to say anything to promote his agenda, like Sean and Ingey.
The Bible held no truth for him, and where there is no truth, there is no direction.
Anyhow, it was an old Thomas Nelson Open Bible KJV in hardback. With the concordance, index, chapter introductions, other various study articles, maps and timelines.
And it was the right thing at the right time.
And still is.
I mean, for a line of talk, they could give away the entire world, but they missed that one book, that one remainder of the generations long gone. And I, needing objective truth, needing to connect with the formal universe, to root myself down in something that could not be manipulated by famous connected persons or other forces.
It was completely apart from the narrative that so consumed much of the world. And me, having lived relatively quiet for 35 years or so in the Cheraw area, living under the radar, but still force-fed into the system by other forces. I still remember Doug(that honky that thinks he's like me) pouring pepper onto his Chinese food, and I was shaking my head in disbelief. Nevertheless, living quietly, trying to remain unoffended, undisturbed, a carbunkle resting on the ocean floor, where even the lightest stir obscures the waters.
Part of the MIKL knowing, there will be no new generation here, having grudgingly accepted that, gnashed teeth and so forth, sold the future for a modicum of peace in the present. Megyn, who has no soul, had three kids, and her idiot husband got a book published. In that respect, I kind of know that the justice of man fails, and I kind of remove myself from that, to preserve my own sanity.
Thirty years on, there won't be many more of us left, no one to tell stories about Mister Rufus and the rest of them.
And I can sit here and calmly read my Bible while these other people do whatever it is that they consider "real life".
Sunday, August 23, 2020
Some paraphrasing and original verse. "The Day the Kidney Fried" plus Moose Stew while watching the RNC.
Hope is a dull blade in the killing floor,
after we see the results of some,
and give it a dose of umph.
Don't whet, oh don't.
You couldn't do that,
to make more meet fate
on the sterile floor with the tiled walls.
Saturday, August 22, 2020
You sit, working your way through your ice cream cone, not knowing: when it's gone, you got nothing but to wait to die. And at some point, you sit with a thimble-sized remainder of the cone left, and you begin to shake your head, downcast, forgetting so easily that you just gorged on delicious ice cream, consumed instead by a moment of emptiness and loss.
You did that and then forget, consumed by what was to come, thoughts only on future conquests, and not remembering the face of your father.
We are so much going from A to B that we are more focused on putting ducks in a row for the moments to come, rather than enjoying the present moment. We would rather complain about television than have a moment of mindful silence.
The ice cream cone doesn't even rate a soda cracker, for never do we just sit with its icy goodness in one hand, and a vanilla mustache on our own person, enjoying the moment apart from all other hindrances.
Friday, August 21, 2020
Jesus's brother James, zombie kerfluffle, and Juan Pablo Miketoya(you know you didn't forget about him).
I tell myself, "You ain't so smart, old bean. You've walked yet more of the see-saw than what is head of you." Schooling and such, yet before, and in front, beset on all sides by the various quiddities and floating emotions of others, flotsam. I yet muddle through, on my own course, whatever that might be.
If you expect nothing, then you never get disappointed. But if you sit outside Rachel's house around midnight, you might yet get what you came for. Wotted things, not written down, unspoken, make their way, somehow, like magic, like when James(Jesus's brother) wore his face on his shirt, a glittering little Da Vinci smile.
Then, ever after it was wrote into the book, "I'm Jesus's brother, James." There were rumblings in modernity, to have found a tomb, with "Brother of Jesus" inscribed on it. They also said, "in the beginning was the word." "Donald stretched the truth to its most thin hairstrand thread possible."
Stanislav. Heaven Trumpets and Devil Trombones.
Zombie Apocalypse. Short on clothes, long on bullets. "The duffel bag that re-killed." Methodist Bible, caught by a stray bullet, pages fluttering along the way, Coronet tearing-ass along, undeterred, big elephant 440 capped with three deuces making kind of a growl at city street speed.
Rachel thinking to shine her ninnies at the Republicans, for sheer spite. Laura's trying to yell over the catcalls, "are those good liberal titties? Are they all like that?"
Later on, sleeping in the backseat, I got tangled-up in the freed brassiere and was kind of taken aback at how is was like wearing a silken straight-jacket.
"I'll watch your car rust."
"I'll eat the brains of your kids' kids."
Juan Pablo Miketoya. The hooch. The lock-up. The clink.
The puzzle house. The "Imaginarium".
White Enamel. Upholstered walls.
The others give you a glare that is both knowing and empty at the same time.
They're saying, over the loudspeaker, "you're free from worry. Free from care. Because you're free from doubt."
The pudding is from a can. The eggs come from a carton. The mixed-fruit jelly comes from a tiny cockroach-sized coffin. The toast is somehow rubbery, lifeless.
You whittle away the day, whittling in your mind at least, pulling at your toenails now and then, in a room that would be small even for an RV.
Tuesday, August 18, 2020
Uncle Ronald Reagan
eggs and bacon
saddam and osama
dubya and obama
an Inconvenient Truth
QAnon Antifa jackboots
that the old lair
smelled like burning hair
Johnny Ola took Fredo
to the backstreet Donkey show.
"They call him Superman."
In another form of existence, I became discorporate, vaporous, and traveled through doors, walls.
Even through the vacuum of time.
I saw that my poetry was pretty ripsh*t.
And Dana thought I was rude. Which is, in part, true. But truth has multiple perspectives, in the subjective universe, not in the Platonic formal universe, where we circulate the memos and talk about:
The Victory of Blight.
I brook that I wot not what is what
but that I talked myself out of the corner,
even standing in the middle of the room;
and lay prone, watching the buzzards.
An eye exploded,
and I, a turn at the mailbox to see,
watching my young tomcat George
on the slow approach to devouring his aunt.
Lifelong friends never tasted this good.
I thought, a dinner without mercy.
Terri Savelle Foy of Terri.com was on the tube talking over goals, and it was becoming plain to me that I was not focusing for one thing, and not really sticking to my goals. I tend to try big goals, but like others I will get discouraged easily and then abandon the whole thing, leaving behind chaos. Things weren't coming together. So clearly, I had some redefining to do.
So Terri came up with this thing about "calling your shot" like Babe Ruth pointing to the upper deck, where you say what you want for later, as if declaring where you are going to be, as if commanding it of all reality. I wouldn't criticize Terri, but rather tailor her teachings more for a more modest life, where I don't feel I need a whole plethora of changes, but maybe a few adjustments here and there. My dreams are not so grand, in the final analysis, so I don't feel I have to do any earth shaking effort to re-jigger myself for success.
Terri used, as pictured above, Isaiah 46:10, which is the words of God, and remembering that we are God-breathed little urchin offspring of the most High, we have a shade of him in us. We have a spark-piece of that sun-drenched radiant glory that is God, Himself. So, I think she is arguing, do each of us not have a piece of that authority, with us being able to literally command before all nature, before all reality, our future intentions?
Anyway. It comes to me that I need to re-jigger myself. More on that later.
In the meantime, declare those goals. Bend your arms.
Monday, August 17, 2020
You stop yourself thinking what they dont like about you, but you don't know, they didn't say, and you stopped anyway.
I wonder, what was the thing, by some sin consciousness, that one would relent in front of a supposed unwitting stranger, something that would give one pause, to condemn himself. And yet they talk so much of self love, how, you must believe yourself worthy of a great love in order to be the recipient of such.
They say that.
A on and off sense of self-worth, I guess, that pushes a person to do and not to do. And is the file accurate? I never thought so. I had people near and dear tell me what my attitudes were towards this and that, with me wide-eyed, quite surprised, thinking, how wrong that was. So might a stranger's files need updating?
Note that I side-step the self-worth equation applied to me, even while I put myself in the center of that particular universe, that I might even by chance lay on the table, hopefully before that lady puts her clothes back on. As a Baptist, you're supposed to have that constant nagging unreleased feeling of guilt, countermanded by the sense of overwhelming gratitude, that if you know the depth of your own error, then you appreciate all the more the freely given gift of mercy.
And the future itself, the dusky path into the shadows, is given away so easily, while the familiar refrain goes up, that there is only one life, that it must be cherished, with every opportunity pushed, every advantage maximized, until long after dreams have become reality.
A modern day Hammurabi. Nebuchednezzar. Artaxerxes.
An enumeration to make the most of one's time.
Gather the rosebuds.
Sunday, August 16, 2020
"S'up?"(aka 60 Seconds To What?) Giallo idea: Your heart is an iron strongbox, and only I have the key.
"If this were one of my novels, it would be simple to explain. Either someone we expect to see any minute is actually dead, or someone we've thought dead a long time is actually live and working behind the scenes."
Remember the class president behind the counter at Walmart? (sorry, I couldn't resist mentioning that again.)
Or the author himself is the killer, making it look like a copy cat is taking stuff from his books. Only the author would be the most likely one trying to make his stuff come off in real life, right?
See, she's all happy and doing a Neil Sedaka(Laughter In The Rain, right?) celebration thing. Probably wants to ball after. Me chasing her down the hall, her barefoot, and me wearing one of her fuzzy bunny slippers, and one of my Garfield slippers.
But then I tell her, I'm the author, after all.
"You want a Life Line? Phone-A-Friend? Poll the Audience?"
We fade to black on the assumption I'm about to break that horror film rule and actually kill the leading lady.
It's like, I was stuck in a music video, George Harrison's What Is Life, as I started the weekend on a somewhat dubious note, at an ...
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